


A Collection of Worlds that I Build in my Head

by Go1dwords



Category: Original Work
Genre: ??? kinda, A little bit of everything, Alcohol, Demon Hunters, Demons, Dialogue is hard, Drabbles, Fantasy, I prefer calling them snippets but oh well, Monks, Multi, Multiple Planes of Existence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Virtual Reality, angery boi Mervyn, simulations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go1dwords/pseuds/Go1dwords
Summary: A place for little lost stories to go.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 1





	1. Zenith Perspective: Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya!
> 
> I've written so many unfinished stories over the years, and quarantine has made me just a little more desperate to put my thoughts down in words. As such, here's a collection of random worlds that I've created over the years and hopefully will continue to create into the future!
> 
> I might continue to add to some until they become a fully fleshed-out story, but we'll see how that goes!

_ “How long are you going to be gone again?” _

_Alluvion does her best to hide the poorly-timed crack in her voice at the word_ _‘gone’ as she trails after her dad, who is moving luggages into their little minivan. Each one is filled with daily necessities and travel items, towels and clothing and toiletries, almost bulging with how much was crammed into the tiny space. Alluvion spots a couple of dad’s favorite snacks smuggled into the carry-on one as well. They are staple foods of some of the corner shops that Alluvion goes to when she wants more pens for her collection, shrimp-flavored crunchy fries in a crinkly package, chocolate-coated cookie sticks, and spicy seaweed._

_ The sight makes her bottom lip quiver with dread and a hint of desperation. She feels woozy and lightheaded, like she is making all of this up in some fever-dream-nightmare-thing. She knows for a fact that there are no more snacks that dad likes in the pantry when she goes home — they had not gone on a snack run yesterday, and so the usually full pantry of random munchables is empty. _

_ And after today, she might not even see those snacks again until she’s 25. _

_ “Three years, my little galewind,” Dad says, and the sight of those snacks disappear as he closes the trunk and hides the luggages from view. He turns towards Alluvion, and grins crookedly, glasses falling off of his nose before he pushes them back up again. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes — smile lines. “The time will fly, don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it.” _

_ Alluvion swallows a ball of prickly air and anxiety, fists clenching and unclenching, all words lost in the jumble of her mind. Dad will be gone for three years. Three years too much, for Alluvion. She’s 22 as of a week ago, coming back home to celebrate. They haven’t even finished the cake yet; her stepmom and step siblings don’t like sweets all too much, so Alluvion and dad are usually the ones to eat it. Dad had said that she can take what’s left back to her own apartment when he leaves. It’ll just spoil otherwise. _

_ Dammit, she doesn’t need to cry over this again, the waterworks have had their run on this topic a month ago already. Alluvion sniffles nonetheless and glares at the blurry ground. There is no point in feeling sad anyhow — dad has lived his entire life wanting to help others, and now he’s got a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do exactly that. Alluvion refuses to be selfish and ask him to stay. He’s going to change the world, or a lot of lives at the least, and she will end herself before ever getting in the way of dad’s dreams. _

_ He’s worked so, so hard. Alluvion is proud of her dad. He needs all the good in life. _

_ She just wishes —. _

_ “Will — will you call? Often?” A breeze blows by, and Alluvion stands her ground even though her legs feel like noodles. _

_ “Every day,” Dad says as solemnly as he can nonetheless before he sweeps Alluvion up and hugs her. She buries her face into his shirt, freshly washed and smelling of detergent. _

_ When she finally pulls away, he pinches her cheeks and says proudly, “Ah, look at how grown up you already are! So independent! Next thing you know, you’ll be married and have kids of your own!” _

_ “Dad!” Alluvion laughs wetly before quieting when Dad brushes her bangs behind her ear and puts her at shoulder length. She watches him closely, and maybe it comforts her too, to see the familiar manic glint as his eyes roam her face, like he is afraid that he won’t be able to commit her to memory in time. _

_ She doesn’t think the feeling has ever gone away for either of them, since the news of Mom’s death came in. ‘Good,’ she had thought back then, heartbroken and rendered to pieces, emotions delicate like shattered glass, ‘Even if the fear kills me it means I won’t forget.’ _

_ But that is the past, and dad has already remarried. They are happy. Despite it all, Alluvion isn’t sure if she should be more or less scared if the paranoia actually disappears. _

_ “Hey,” Dad says quietly, and Alluvion meets his gaze. “Maybe your new game will be out when I come back.” _

_ She shuffles from side to side. Looks down. “Maybe. I’m just trudging through some rough patches right now.” _

_ “You’ll figure it out,” Dad says decisively. “I believe in you.” _

_ Alluvion swallows again. The coding and graphics dance behind her eyelids often enough at night, when sleep eludes her like some mythical beast. Just a rough patch. She’ll work through it. She always has. There’s nothing to say in the face of dad’s determination though, so Alluvion just says, “Thanks, dad.” _

_ Dad leaves three minutes before it’s 2 in the afternoon. His plane is set for 6 p.m., and it will take at least an hour to get to the airport. Alluvion watches the minivan drive off and tries to clamp down on the instinctual fear whenever she watches Dad drive off by himself in a car. Instead, she turns back around and ducks into the house that smells of crisp air and clean sheets. _

_ Her stepmom is all composure and discipline and hard-earned respect. It’s no wonder she has a fortune — she commands the right sort of attention, and the money flows in almost as an afterthought. Dad says that she is soft too, in her own ways, but Alluvion never sees it. She is out of place in this immaculate labyrinth of a mansion, where she is chaotic and disheveled and can hardly find the kitchen on a good day. She doesn’t tell dad that she thinks her stepmom doesn’t like her, for exactly the reasons that she can’t change. _

_ It’s okay though — Alluvion is only staying for a couple more days before she heads back to her own apartment. Small and messy and scraped-together is what she is used to. It’s what she works best in. She thinks better when there are more chances for a stray thought to inspire her work. _

_ A couple more days. Three years. She can do it. _

\---NADIR TIMELINE V5.

The Vanadey Monastery sits on the Vanadey Highrise Terraces on the East side of the Kingdom of Sing-Lai, backlit by the rising sun each morning like a painting, glowing golden and beautiful against the blue sky, framed by its famous cherry trees.

The top of the sect monastery occasionally is ringed by clouds, when the day feels particularly magnificent, and it is common fact that it is the tallest point in all of the regions. Pretty as it is, the location is nothing if not inconvenient.

When the ancestors of the sect built the Monastery, more than one of the rice farmers near this area had scratched their heads and wondered why their dear monk friend had taken one look at the mountain and decided  _ yes, I would like to have the most detailed building of this side of Sing-Lai be structured upon this precarious highland where one false steps would cause any inheritors of my legacy not merely lose a limb, but quite possibly a life, too. _

The story ends up not being quite as spectacular as the view — it turns out that Monk Vanadey is afraid of the mosquitos and other bugs that live in the warmer temperaments at the foot of the mountain.

Ganymida of the Lightless Empress Fire takes delight in the howling laughter of her brothers-and-sisters-in-arms as she tells a falsified version of the story on their way towards said monastery, for the — what was it again? Right — the coming-of-age celebration for the twin inheritors of the legacy of the “dumbest architectural decision ever made.”

As by invitation, the majority of each Monastery’s disciples were sent to attend what could be considered the coronation of the next generation’s leaders. It was like the crowning of the rulers of the regions, but belonging specifically to the martial monasteries. The trip from the Lightless Empress Fire Monastery in Fiordana to the Vanadey Highrise Terraces in Sing-Lai is a long one, taking days using a mix of Ganymida’s homemade transportation ritual prototypes and walking.

Grandmaster Fraser had worried that since most of the caretakers would have to stay behind because they are not invited, some of the younger disciples could be fussy and cause trouble. Ganymida had personally decided to remedy this situation by telling stories and keeping them entertained by buying a variety of trinkets and food, with the Grandmaster’s approval — she wouldn’t dare spend the Monastery’s money so frivolously otherwise. She also tells a litany of stories, scattered pieces of a rumor that she heard in passing or something made up on the spot. Other ones that she tells are true.

Her stories are highly embellished, of course. Most of them are complete bullshit, made purely for entertainment, but she’s built off of less. Ganymida languishes in the spotlight and smirks, as says the next part as of divulging a secret, “And I heard, when he is bitten, he turns into a swollen, inflated-looking peach of a man, so much that the farmer that he sought aid from mistook him for the Fat God of Wealth and asked for his blessings!”

“Sister Mida,” one of the older disciples wheezes out. Only Ganymida had the nerve to slander the founding story of the sect Monastery that they currently were visiting. “You can’t say that!” Many of the other senior disciples were trying their best not to snicker. They all vaguely sound like puppies that are choking.

“It’s true though!” Ganymida insists, making wide, innocent eyes at the younger disciples that hang off of her every word, while her martial brothers and sisters giggled to death around her, “I also heard that in order to un-peachify himself, he had to walk to the top of the mountain and pop himself like a grape on the pointed roof!”

“You better be glad none of the Vanadey Sect disciples are listening to you, Mida,” Another senior disciple snorts while her senior sisters and brothers give up holding back and start laughing. “Or your uncles, for that matter.”

“Of course not! And Uncle is too busy managing the Kingdom to manage me!” She says cheerfully. Ganymida adds, “Not that he isn’t the one to tell me these stories in the first place. I’m just passing on the tales of our ancestors!”

The street vendors along the road to the Vanadey Monastery are staring at them in varying degrees of shock and bewilderment. Though it is not uncommon for loud groups of people to pass through Teigen Town, it  _ is _ uncommon for a group of  _ highly prestigious monks _ from a visiting Monastery to cause a scene. Ganymida is sure of and satisfied with the fact that all the birds within a one-kilometer radius have been scared off.

To be fair, they are also a bit late to the party. Many of the other Monasteries have already passed through this region and no doubt arrived at the Highrise Terraces to be received already. Ganymida, being one of the senior disciples, decided that they would extend the courtesy of allowing the other Monasteries to pass through first, without competing for first arrival rights. And if it gave her an excuse to drag the younger disciples through the entirety of Teigen Town...well, it would be a shame to miss out on the delicacies of Sing-Lai’s street food!

They had arrived early into the morning, when the stars had not fully faded yet. Now, the sun is peeking out from the horizon, and Ganymida acts as the ringleader of the Lightless Empress Fire Disciples, dutifully leading them through Teigen and towards the Highrise Terraces. The other senior disciples had long since given up corralling their brothers and sisters against Ganymida’s will, and instead trail along, pretending to not enjoy buying the sweets and snacks that they spoil the younger disciples with.

“Are we heading up now, Sister Mida?” One of them tugs on Ganymida’s sleeve, eyes shining and bright, pigtails pulled out of her face and bouncing cutely. She has eight rings braided into her hair, three of which are gold, signifying eight years of age, and three years in the Monastery. “We wanna see the roof where Master Vani-Vana-Vanadey popped!”

So innocent! Ganymida laughs and picks her up, showing off her strength. The other young disciples immediately bounce around her, demanding to be picked up too, “Ah ah ah, I’m not as strong enough to pick up all of you right now! You don’t want your sister Mida to pop like Master Vanadey did, do you?”

“Noooo!” The girl in her arms giggles and wiggles around to be let down. She smooths a tiny hand over her outer robe and puffs her chest out, chin up, just like Ganymida taught her. “This disciple Ananke will not allow Sister Mida to pop!”

“But Sister Mida is not on the roof like Master Vanadey!” The others protest, and Ganymida laughs and laughs as her senior brothers and sisters give them amused looks and eyerolls.

Talk of roofs and grapes continue all the way up until halfway up the highrises, where Ananke stumbles a little and is lagging behind, and Ganymida bullies everyone until they stop and rest. She complains about the hot weather and the sun, drapes herself over the eldest senior disciple, and whines about her aching feet.

They settle underneath a grove of trees that have a large rock formation at the entrance that reads  _ Silent Sunlight _ , carved and inked into the stone. Ganymida chooses a haphazard- looking boulder to sit on top of, legs splayed lazily and with improper posture, and she watches the junior disciples sit in circles and share their snacks and play paper scissors rock.

The senior disciples instinctively split up into groups, mostly by the classes they took back at the Monastery. Ganymida ignores  _ that _ propriety and lounges carelessly on her rock, as her own martial group look at her with exasperation and fondness and start making their way to her nonetheless.

“You are good with children, S-sister Mida.” One of them calls out, her voice lilting and shy when she laughs awkwardly and fans herself. “I wish I had your charm.”

Ganymida waves it off like all the thanks she receives, and winks, “Ah, I’m sure anyone can do it, Sister London! I have no blood siblings like you, so I suppose the disciples in the Monastery can be my siblings instead! You’re my favorite, don’t worry!”

London flushes. “Th-thank you.”

“I think it’s less of her charm and more of her ability to spout off the world’s most awful jokes and stories,” the oldest senior disciple of the Monastery remarks wryly. He was the one that Ganymida had draped herself over earlier when she was petitioning for a break. “If she truly had charm then maybe Grandmaster Fraser would actually bring her to the Martial Politics Conventions.”

“That’s simply because Grandmaster thinks that I am too good at talking so he wants to save some face for himself!” Ganymida says jokingly.

“You lose all the face Lightless would gain anyway. Do you know how embarrassing it is when all other monasteries bring at least two inheritors and Lightless Empress Fire only brings one?”

“I’m hurt, Brother Erebus! How could you say such a thing about me when you are my family! Don’t be like him,” Ganymida tells the younger disciples mock-seriously, “Or you’ll miss all you’re arrows during the hunting competition like him last year!”

Erebus blinks and his ears go red, “This-This isn’t about me! Ganymida!”

The kids laugh and ask Ganymida for candy, which she holds onto as long as she can by teasing them and pretending to eat it herself. When Ananke and her friends have finally settled down for their treats, she turns to Erebus again and bleps him, “Besides, it’s not like you don’t know what happens when both of us are gone.”

It was no secret in the Lightless Monastery that London is terrible as a babysitter. Because taking over Monastery matters falls to the disciples in order of seniority when the Grandmaster isn’t there, whenever Ganymida and Erebus are gone or occupied, London becomes the highest acting disciple.

They quickly learned that London is not equipped to corral one hundred disciples and dozens more maids and servants. She is too shy and lacks the heart to discipline rule-breakers. While she does well managing the morning martial classes for the older disciples, any more than that will fluster her.

London hides behind her hands and says, “I don’t know what to do with  _ kids _ , Sister Mida.”

“We know, London,” Erebus says. “It’s okay.”

“You just have to pretend that they aren’t ten million little Erebus’s in the making,” Ganymida advises sagely before ducking a swat from her brother.

“And I don’t suppose you’ll be here to do that tonight, Sister?” Erebus swats at her again as he says this, and this time she is clipped on the ear. “Seeing as how you’ll be  _ halfway down the mountain again _ ? What poor soul needs your help this time? More than your brothers and sisters that you promised to take care of?”

“Brother-” Ganymida protests, clutching her ear as she watches London’s face fall, her fan fluttering coming to a stop. Her martial sister doesn’t see the victorious look that Erebus throws at Ganymida, “You said -!”

“Mida, I thought you said you would help me during the introduction ceremony!” London cries in distress,  _ loudly _ , and some of the younger disciples turn to look at them.  _ Dear Empress, that face - _

Ganymida hastens to reply, petting her hair in an attempt to calm her, “No, no-”

“I have to deal with the children?” London practically melts into a pathetic blob on her rock, grasping at Erebus’ leg. Then in a miraculous turn of events: “Brother, brother, you’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Er,” Erebus says, visibly startled, not ready for his sister’s clinginess to suddenly turn on him. Ganymida laughs at him,  _ this is what you get for trying to guilt me into staying _ . “Sure.” Then his face pales when he realizes what he just agreed to. He whirls to face Ganymida, a monumental task with their martial sister still hugging his shins. He points at her, scowling, “This - this is your fault! You owe me, after this!”

“All things considered, brother, you started it,” Ganymida says. She brushes off her robes unnecessarily and stands up with a bounce, changing the topic cheerily before Erebus’ sour look starts turning the mood sour too, “Well, we should get moving! No time to waste, after all! The morning is nearly gone.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you dragged the entire Monastery through all of Teigen.”

Ganymida only throws him a grin before she puts two fingers into her mouth and whistles. The younger disciples scramble to get up, faces turned up towards her on her rock.

_ They’re all more like little sunflowers than little Erebus’s _ , Ganymida thinks.

“Rest time over!” She calls out before the standard murmuring of tired, bored children can start, “Remember to be on your best behavior from now on, since there are going to be disciples from other Monasteries up here!”

“Yes second martial sister!” Fifty or so voices chime in in unison, slightly eerie in their synchronicity. Grandmaster Fraser would be proud. Maybe Uncle Xanadu would be, too.

She smiles, and London and Erebus come up beside her with the senior disciples. Together, underneath the midday sun, they are an unstoppable force. 

“For the Lightless — !” Erebus steps forward, eyes shining, fist up in the sky.

“We bring the Empress Fire!”

_ Endymion is of the opinion that she has, in fact, made the greatest invention in all of mankind’s history. _

_ Her hands hold the power to mold a reality within the mind of one, two, three —  _ **_hundreds_ ** _ of people: to alter their memories, so that for a second of their life, they can see something bright in their futures. _

_ Outside her apartment, the city lives on, blazing lights only darkening the shadows festering in the alleyways and underbelly of society. Those shadows are what plucked at her heartstrings first, and they are what she will try to brighten, if only for a moment. _

_ She is not selfish enough to call herself a martyr, nor is she fool enough to convince herself that she will be the salvation of this world through this creation. _

_ Endymion had kept to her morals throughout this pet project of hers: She is not the god, not the arbiter, not the one to decide the end-all-be-all of humanity. No one in this world, least of all her, has the right to tear down all that is known in the name of making it better. _

_ She knows better than that. _

_ She’s just a simple girl, who wants to help people (even though the legality of this entire endeavor is questionable, she will admit. Not that it’s ever stopped her). _

_ The laboratory around her is silent and void of all people, repurposed from the basement of an abandoned office building across from her house. She needs to redecorate before opening day, probably. Add a fresh coat of paint, maybe some potted flowers and a new lightbulb and a ceiling fan. Hopefully after some more polishing up this can be the sitting room for anyone who shows up. _

_ Endymion cracks her knuckles and her neck and sighs. Now for making the advertisement itself. And finding an appropriate name. Goddamnit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing styles may be a little inconsistent haha; there's times when I feel kind of like a rock when writing and there's times when i feel like god.


	2. The Wonderous Traveling Caravan: Right-Hand Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mervyn is kicked into a Realm of mortality, filth, and useless people. He is angry, but he refuses to be helpless.
> 
> Walk through the doors, and hope for a miracle.
> 
> (Even miracles come too late, sometimes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this actually is a side-story-esque thing that I wrote for a YouTube channel that a friend and I plan on making. It is — for better or for worse — the backstory to a side character.
> 
> Some context required here — this is a story with multiple worlds and multiple planes of existence on each. Mervyn here is from the Lower Dimensions (plane of existence), and he was transported to the Material Realm/Overworld (also a plane of existence). He is a demon from a section of the lower Dimensions known as the Underworld.
> 
> And, well, I don't want to spoil too much — there's a very likely chance that I will continue this, just probably not before we have the proper world-building available in an audience-friendly format, haha!
> 
> Anyhow, enjoy!

Mervyn wakes up in a field of Overworld flowers with the dirt of the mortal realm permeating his clothes and his skin, anger on the tip of his tongue and choking his senses. 

He is blinded by the white-hot touch of his temper, tasting ashe and the vile curses that he wants to spew, and he burns under the midday sun, simmering with unbridled fury, smoke from the second Prince’s dismissal curling off of him just like the curt disregard that he was granted when he tried to stop  _ his _ Prince — the Eighth and the most deserving of his title than any of the other bastards that the Lower Dimensions recognized as Princes — from entering a fight that he won’t be victorious in.

“My Prince,” he says through gritted teeth, to a stretch of sunflowers and blue lilies that go out as far as he can see, as if his Prince can still hear him when he is most likely mauled and torn to bloody pieces on another plane, “Why in  _ the Name of the Underworld _ did you–!” He chokes on the rage that rises up his throat again.

Mervyn is never unrighteously furious. He is the inferno that brings lesser demons to ruin, the devastation that purges the clinging shadows, and the catastrophe brought upon by his conscience’s aggravation. It is the trait that his Prince had admired enough to claim him as his right-hand man, until eternity.

And yet.

“Morticia and Sylvanus plotted your downfall together, and you  _ went with them _ ?” He rips out petals of the closest blooms, the same way he would rip out their hair if he ever lays sight on them in his Prince’s territory _ ever again _ and shreds the bits of yellow and blue, getting them stuck under his fingernails along with the filth of the Material Realm.

He snarls and suppresses the rest of his basic demonic instincts that are unbecoming of his station that demand him to claw out ditches rivaling canyons into the dirt and to raze everything in sight, to blot out the sun with darkness and fire, like an eclipse of impending doomsday.

Mervyn is angry, but he will not sully the reputation of his Prince by disgracing himself. Even if his Prince is dead.

Prince Daedalus knows his flaws, one of which is excessive pride and a habit overestimating himself. Mervyn is his foil, to mitigate the arrogance that embellishes the demon race like an unwanted birthmark or an extra limb. His Prince  _ knows this _ . Mervyn  _ thought _ that His Prince knew this.

So  _ why, why? _ Why would Daedalus send Mervyn  _ away _ ?

He does not understand. This fact irritates him further.

Mervyn’s control is thin over his own emotions and power. He struggles with his turmoil for what could be minutes or hours and comes out with dissatisfaction, a prickly ball of malcontent building in his chest, and bloodied cuts on his palms where his nails dug through skin.

He picks himself up and stomps on the shame that rises when he sees the ugly patch of upturned dirt and trampled flowers, like a wild animal had lost its senses and gone insane there. No, Mervyn will not feel embarrassed for his anger.

There is smoke rising from the Eastward direction, stark against the white clouds and blue sky. He heads in the opposite direction out of spite and puts as much distance in between himself and the scent of flowers. The smell invades the inside of his nose, disgustingly overpowering, fueling the displeasure that he harbors. He will find a way back to his Prince. And when he does, he’s going to kick his ass and then get on his knees and proclaim his loyalty until Daedalus  _ actually _ understands this time.

This place that his Prince had kicked Mervyn out of the Underworld for makes him dizzy with infuriation. Mervyn wonders what piece of shit Material Realm world he was dropped into where his skin crawls and his ears ring and his entire being is  _ wrong _ . He feels distinctly disconcerted behind the fury that runs in his veins, like a baby demon granted a flesh bag body again.

Perhaps all of the Overworld is like this. It wouldn’t surprise him that mortals live in this sludge of a dimension, the energy and magic all around filthy and contaminated.

Annoyingly enough, his purposeful avoidance of the mortal settlement towards the East brings him to the seemingly larger mortal settlement in the West. Mervyn stalks his way toward it, nostrils and temper flaring with each step. Turning back the way he came would be pointless. The teleport point is one-way and already closed. His Prince really thinks of everything.

A migraine settles into the space between his brows as he stops short of the entrance. The guards — if you can even call them that — are cowering, and the scent of fear curls like curdled milk off of them. He is sure the throbbing in his head only serves to make him look more sour and intimidating.

“What is this settlement called?” He demands, glowering at the broken sign atop the post a couple dozen feet away. Pathetic, really. “Can’t even fix your shit, mortals?”

It’s the younger one that speaks up, voice quiet and stuttering. “Th-this is Chutney Hill, sir. We’re the...the only village in the central meadows.” His voice lilts upwards towards the end, as if asking a question. “And the sign is broken? From the uh... storm? Yesterday?”

Mervyn scowls. He doesn’t care about the state of weather in the mortal realm. But where the fuck is Chutney Hill? Is that supposed to ring a bell for him? Considering that he has no recollection of the name, there must not be a teleport point to the Underworld there. He folds his arms across his chest.

“Useless,” Mervyn mutters under his breath and shoves his way past the guards. When he chances a glance back at them, they are still staring at him in fear. Mervyn snorts. If this were the Underworld, they’d be dead from the first visiting demon that comes across them.

What a scene he must make, entering into a mortal settlement with all the ferocity of a thousand hurricanes, scowling at every living thing that moves, pupils in pinpricks, the irises so large they swallow the whites.

The mortals give him a wide berth on the streets, and Mervyn makes a beeline for the tavern. Hopefully the rumors about mortals being drunk are true, and he can finally wrangle some useful information together. If his suspicions are correct, and there really is no teleport array here, he’ll just  _ make _ one, his Prince’s wishes be damned. He has enough blood on him to draw the damn thing, and if he doesn’t, it’s not like one or two mortals going missing is anything out of the ordinary.

It is easy to spot the tavern, and surprisingly, it is not much different than the bar that Mervyn frequented in the Underworld, save for the distinct lack of blood and broken glass outside. A couple of mortals are passed out against the side, and Mervyn can smell the liquor on them from a mile away. The establishment itself is made almost entirely out of wood, except for its foundation, which is cobbled and covered in overgrown moss. A giant sign hanging from the top reads  _ The Angel Bar _ .

The irony is not lost on him, a demon.

Mervyn enters it much like how he entered the village of Chutney Hill, and he gets nearly the same reaction. His presence towers over these mortals, and the entire bar goes mute immediately. Then, the scent of alcohol hits him like a train and his migraine flares. He snarls. The closest patrons startle and shrink away as he storms inside, and eyes follow him from every corner of the room. The floorboards are rickety and hollow underneath. He hopes the fucking floor here caves in one day.

Mervyn catches the eye of the tavernkeep, trying to keep his face neutral. He makes a less-than-half-hearted attempt at not stalking up towards the bar but gives up midway. He makes a choice to slam his arm on the counter of the bar and to give a sneer, with too much teeth, as he says, “Strongest fucking drink you have.”

The tavernkeep does not shrink away like the rest of his customers; he merely offers a more-genuine smile and says quietly, with a grace that Mervyn has seen from no mortal yet, “Of course sir, right up.”

The name tag that he wears reads  _ Angel _ , and Mervyn snorts quietly, to himself. There is a prolonged moment of silence before Angel murmurs, “On the house,” as the drink — blood red and bubbling — is passed to him. It smells faintly of hellfire and pomegranates.

Whispers start up in the corners of the room, no doubt about this new guest that just arrived.

Mervyn grunts and takes a seat at the bar, ignoring the fact that he does not, in fact, have mortal money on him anyway. Not that he would have paid. He takes stock of his current belongings, which, he quickly finds out, consist of the clothes he is wearing and nothing else. He thinks bitterly that maybe this is why his Prince insisted that he wear the cloak embroidered with anti-magic wards merely hours before — so that when he finally sent Mervyn into the mortal plane, no demonic energy can find its way to him, and allow him to travel back immediately lest he decide to undress.

Mervyn stops himself from tossing the entire drink down at once at that thought and instead takes sips, keeping an ear on the slow, recommencing conversations around him. Fine. He’ll play Daedalus’ game. And when Mervyn wins, he’ll go back to save his Prince and make sure he never pulls something like this  _ ever _ again.

A few eyes stay on his back, making his neck prickle.  _ To be expected _ , Mervyn decides grudgingly,  _ and probably the smartest thing I’ve seen these stupid mortals do for the entire time I’ve been here. _

(Mortal drinks turn out to be not that strong in general, he discovers, because the blood-red , strongest, whatever-it-is that he was given tastes like juice. He could probably throw the whole thing back, on second thought, and be completely fine afterwards. He does, however, consider the bartender and if the latter has history with the Lower Dimensions somehow — he finds the thought of the pomegranate being a coincidence highly unlikely.)

Mervyn sits, drinks, and listens.

There are a couple of rumors here and there about a ghost haunting a house at the end of the street, some stories about the nearby festival going on, and a caravan of explorers passing by a few days ago. Much of the hearsay is of no worth and is simply meaningless jabber to Mervyn.

Annoying, but expected. His prince must have known how useless these mortals were. Mervyn has never liked the Material Plane. Or the Upper Domains, for that matter. Really, Mervyn doesn’t belong anywhere but the Underworld, at his Prince’s side.

A few minutes pass, and he is beginning to wonder if coming here really was a good idea when he realizes that his migraine has subsided a little. His relief is overshadowed by a resurging wave of annoyance that had been suppressed to prevent exacerbating his headache. He furrows his brows, and — yeah, migraine is gone. Was it the drink? Hah. Fucking figures.

A split second after that, he suddenly registers that it’s because the conversation in the bar dropped again. Mervyn turns to look over his shoulder critically as the air becomes frigid, the outline of a man appearing through the entrance, backlighted by the now-setting sun. Apparently he’s been ruminating here for too long, already.

The man steps into the bar, and Mervyn notes the worn leather, the sword, and — peculiarly — the smell of monster blood.

Ah.

Mervyn has met ones that look like this, that  _ smell _ like this before. Lean and built and hardy and with that steel in their eyes and on their tongues. After all, there are only a few mortals that have entered into the Underworld alive, and Mervyn is anything but uninformed. They are always so brave. So hardy. But in the end, it is not their plane of existence.

What is it this time? An adventurer? Monster hunter? Or…

Mervyn licks his lips, anger briefly overshadowed by a lazy intrigue, gaze leisurely trailing up the figure to lock eyes with…

Ah. So it  _ is _ a demon hunter.

The broken horns he adorns and blood-colored swirls in his irises give him away. Mervyn muses on how many contracts this one must have broken for the red to be  _ that _ deep in color.

It’s a price that many aren’t willing to pay, because the magic etches itself deep in your blood and your essence. It’s something that neither death nor reincarnation can wash away. Mervyn can appreciate a ballsy hunter. Usually their ends are more gruesome than others’. He wonders how long this one can stay sane.

(It is funny, in retrospect, the entire set-up of the situation. Mervyn is in an unbroken, straight path from the door, the center of attention for anyone who is entering the tavern. The tables that had been in the way had all been shoved aside when he stormed in, and no mortal seems to have the courage to move them back. Then the hunter comes in, and with the lighting, the path to confrontation, the leveled gaze…)

Mortal and immortal minds alike both often forget that Mervyn is afraid of no god, no man, nothing but the entity that is His Prince’s dismissal. He will break expectations, defy the balance of the world, catastrophize what is fair and just, simply to offer up his loyalty on a silver platter.

Playing safe is for cowards. Fearing the crowd is for milksops. Mervyn cares not for being thought insane by these inferior humans, who are too afraid to find humor in a once-in-a-lifetime situation like this.

Mervyn tips his head back and laughs, the first sound of amusement since he entered this dumb parallel plane, and the only sound to break the silence of the tavern. It shatters the frigidness in the air, like vibrations on ice. There are a couple of startled noises from some of the mortals around: surprised shuffling, glass breaking, a quiet cuss. Patrons openly gape at him. He turns sideways against the bar and puts his chin on his hand, half-facing the hunter, like he is watching some experiment play out before him.

An unspoken standoff between supposed enemies, on top of what could be considered neutral ground, but within the home plane of the hunter. Mervyn considers himself and — no, he doesn’t particularly feel  _ hunted _ right now. They are both still, despite Mervyn’s now-captured interest and flicking tail.

The silence rings a scant bit too long, and Mervyn decides to make the first move before his migraine decides to return from impatience. He catches the hunter’s eye, tempers his anger, holds his gaze evenly with a smirk, and dips his head in acknowledgement before turning away and throwing down the rest of the drink that he still holds in his glass.

Pomegranates and hellfire fill his senses. Disgustingly nostalgic, if he cared to admit it.

The room slowly begins to whisper again.

Mervyn chances a glance back at the entrance, where the hunter is now hesitating, seemingly thrown off by Mervyn’s disinterest in doing anything but drinking. No doubt he had been expecting some type of aggression. Mervyn wonders if this particular one found his trail of destruction outside and followed him here, or if someone in this room had pissed their pants and contacted a hunter group or some shit when he came in. Maybe it was that guard stationed outside the town. Not the younger one, probably — the older one, if Mervyn had to bet.

No matter. Mervyn turns back to face the bar. Whether or not the hunter was here for him, he isn’t dying in this place, to some ballsy adventurer with demons after his head. He will live and die by his Prince’s command. Nothing else.

Then the hunter slides into a seat next to him a split second later, the smell of blood curling into the space around like incense.

Mervyn does not like how close he is, but he digs his fangs into his lip and says nothing.

“I’ll take what he’s having,” the hunter murmurs to Angel, inclining his head towards Mervyn. “Ice it for me, will you?”

“Long day?” Angel asks, kindly, perhaps some kind of past exchange that they are repeating. Reliving? The two of them seem friendly. Sentimental fools.

“Long week,” the hunter laughs, and is handed his drink, in exchange for some silver bits. Mervyn watches to the interaction silently, idly stroking his glass. Then, the hunter’s eyes land on him, briefly, before darting back up to Angel. A gold bit is added to the pile of coins in Angel’s hand. “Refill for this gentleman right here. On me.”

Angel obliges, and Mervyn raises an eyebrow, but lets him take his cup and put in more hellfire and pomegranate, no ice. He doesn’t say thanks, though Angel seems to take it in a stride.

The demon and the hunter, shoulder to shoulder, drinking like pals. They are still too close for comfort. Is this some type of mortal custom to indicate that he would like a conversation? Mervyn can almost laugh. This entire fucking day has been irony upon irony. At the very least...

“You here for business or leisure?” He throws out conversationally and with just a hint of bite. If they are going to talk, better sooner than later. Mervyn does not like entertaining small talk, but maybe the both of them can get something out of this conversation, so long as the hunter does not suddenly pull a knife on him.

The hunter startles. The drink in his hand nearly tips over.

Hm — well,  _ jumpy _ is better than  _ vapid _ .

“Wha – oh. Leisure. Kind of.” The latter laughs, eyes sharp. Mervyn doesn’t react to his answer. “I wasn’t expecting a demon here, if that is what you are asking. I live here — or, uh, my living quarters are here. I just came back.”

Mervyn doesn’t ask  _ from where. _ The monster blood explains itself. He  _ is _ surprised that the hunter lives here though — seems like too insignificant of a town for a man who has broken many demon contracts.

He throws down his refilled drink and thinks. The hunter is not here to kill him. Now, how does one go about asking about planar travel into the Lower Dimensions? Maybe he should have just chosen to make a jump point from scratch instead of trying to find a premade one here in the Material Plane.

The ice inside bumps against his lips, cold on cold. The hunter is silent again, but, if the way he stares contemplatively at Mervyn is any indication, he has questions too. Mervyn prides himself on patience and is rewarded shortly with a cautious, “What are  _ you _ doing here?”

Mervyn usually is not nice to others poking about in his business, even if he was baiting them to ask. Mortals and immortals alike are nosy — he tends to play with those who have curiosity like a disease, like how children would play with food. It is entertaining. And it pisses them off.

“I’m drinking,” he says instead of ‘ _ I’m looking for a way to get back to My Prince before I destroy this awful dimension _ ,’ and gets a flat look in return that makes him bare his teeth in a sharp smile. He shakes the glass in his hand in needless explanation, ice tinkling inside.

“Your kind don’t get drunk off of mortal drink anyway,” comes the response, coolly, like it is common knowledge. It isn’t. Or at least, demons don’t typically associate enough with the Material Realm for mortals to know. Mervyn snorts.

“Yet you buy me the strongest off the house, nonetheless.”

The hunter lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, “The thought that counts, right? Or is that not a saying wherever you’re from?”

Mervyn snorts. He’s pretty sure the saying  _ originated _ from the Underworld, but he’s never been the type to accommodate others. If they’re wrong, well, not his problem. Spin a story out of air, and generations later, it’ll become a legend. “They say a lot of things where I’m from.” Then, his mood sours a little, because mortals seem to only spout bullshit. “–If only it’s the same here.”

“I’m sure you’ll get what you need eventually.” The hunter says fluidly.. He pauses a second, and Mervyn watches red eyes narrow in thought. “You need to be a bit more...approachable if you’re fishing for information though. Mortals life safety. You’re kind of a basketcase with how you’re sitting here and scowling at every living thing.”

Mervyn’s limbs go rigid as his eyes narrow.  _ Smarter than he looks. Or dumber, because you never point out what someone else is after unless you don’t value your life. _ “And who says I’m here for that?”

The hunter is still nonchalant, still playing with his glass absentmindedly. But his eyes are still sharp, and Mervyn is suddenly very sure that the ‘strongest drink’ in this bar did nothing to muddle the mind of the hunter. The man’s words are careful, deliberate, “I mean, I suppose most people won’t know the turf war going on in the Underworld right now.”

Mervyn goes cold. Turf war? Turf  _ war? _ There hasn’t been a turf war in centuries. His grip on his glass tightens. The two of them stare at each other, one gauging the other’s reaction, one scanning for truth in the other’s words.

Mervyn remembers that His Prince had been somber about that meeting. The situation had unsettled Mervyn to his bones — he had the sinking feeling that nothing would go to plan that day. Curse or bless his intuition, it went downhill fast. Negotiations had been torn apart, and Morticia had cared for nothing but his Prince’s end. Disgusting.

The Lower Dimensions had not been in the business of needless killing for millenia. And yet — Mervyn had been forcibly removed from the meeting, and Daedalus had complied with Sylvanus and Morticia for —  _ for what? _ A  _ turf war? _

In his hand, his glass shatters.

The hunter jumps up from his stool in surprise, and the stalemate was broken. Shards of translucent glass cover his palms, and Mervyn stares uncomprehendingly at them. The tavern goes silent for the third time today, the tinkling of glass particles hitting the rickety wooden boards the only sound indicating movement.

This time, Angel is the first one to interrupt the silence, with a polite bow, acutely professional, words succinct, “I can deal with the glass, sir, please make sure that you are unhurt. There is a first aid kit underneath the counter. Do not worry about damages.”

Mervyn on the contrary, has no words, nor any will to conjure up gratefulness. He furrows his brows, presses his lips together and manages a nod. The hunter is silent from where he is standing and observing him. Their gazes meet, again.

This time, the hunter shows no signs of previous apathy or hesitance, just clarity, wariness and something akin to realization. For the first time since he had been in the Overworld, Mervyn is not angry or amused or anything, really. Just hurt, confused, and  _ tired _ .

“When...When did you get that news?” Mervyn rasps. There is ringing in his ears, like the shattering glass is repeating on loop. Patrons listen to them from the shadows. Mervyn cares not for them.

The hunter is silent for a second. Then, “...Today.”

Today...today. Perhaps all is not lost yet. After all, if a turf war is still in continuation, there must be  _ two _ sides fighting. (He refuses to believe that the turf war is between Sylvanus and Morticia instead of between them and His Prince. Daedalus would not lose. Mervyn will not allow his defeat.)

“Take me to where you heard it,” Mervyn says, words like a command, a shadow of his former role as the right hand man of His Prince. He feels empty inside, fueled only by a bitter fear and a cold hope, like food that has been left out for too long.

Mervyn is loyal to His Prince. He will find out his fate, regardless of what it is. He is not scared of the answer. He isn’t.

He must keep track of the progress of the war. If it stops, then that means —

_ No _ .

The hunter inclines his head in acknowledgement, and brushes himself off. Mervyn soundlessly watches him drop two more gold coins onto the counter, the  _ plinking _ of the shiny pieces loud in the unsteady stillness of the bar.

They walk out before Angel comes back with a broom.

_ My Prince _ .

_ If the world tears you apart, why do you not want me there to do the same in your name? There has been no kindness shown by the Underworld. So where does yours spawn from? Why is it something you kindle, like a dying flame? _

_ But, in the end — _

_ Was it worth this outcome? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue is a little rushed, but quite frankly I'm sick of looking at it :P. I'm sure I could use more build-up, but most of this stuff is unedited and will stay that way until it is being properly used.
> 
> Also, for some reason, AO3 likes to mess up my spacings when I copy and paste my stuff from docs into this. So if there are random spaces where punctuation is, then blame the system (or blame me lol).
> 
> I'd like to think I can fix things later, but history shows that I am godawful at doing it sooner rather than later.
> 
> Edit: Now kind of edited :D


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